City Pulse editor scores with cancer memoir

If the prospect of one journalist interviewing anothermakes you queasy, you’re not alone, but James Sanford wasn’t going totell you this story himself.

That’s why the arts and culture editor at City Pulse, nowa best-selling Kindle Singles author, sat at my kitchen table last weekto talk about “The Sum of My Parts,” a frank and funny memoir of hisbattle with testicular cancer.

No — not “battle.” That noun isn’t Sanford’s style, nor adjectives like “heroic” or “triumphant.” Ifyou read Sanford’s sardonic City Pulse film reviews, you know hismelodrama-whacking machete has been tempered by decades ofdisease-of-the-day dreck from Hollywood.

A lot of the fun — that’s right, fun — of “The Sum of MyParts” comes from the 48-year-old Sanford’s get-real,this-is-not-a-movie approach.

“There was never a terrifying turning point at which Iwoke up in a pool of my own blood, or collapsed in the middle of a busystreet, or found myself immobilized by paralyzing pain,” he writes. “Ijust kept going, wishing all the time that I would wake up one morningto find my body had returned to normal.”

Maybe that’s why “The Sum of My Parts” has beendownloaded by thousands of grateful readers around the world. Sanford,who is in complete remission, doesn’t try to push a “personal journey”on the reader, much less a “spiritual triumph.” He simply lays himselfbare, literally and figuratively. He gives the precise physical andpsychological details he tried to find, but couldn’t, when he wasdiagnosed.

What is surgery and recovery like? Is there a scar? Howdid the experience make him feel about his body? Why did the hospitalcharge him $40 for a post-operation cookie? (Only the last question isnever answered.)

Last month, Sanford got a one-word e-mail from a reader: “Life-changing.”

Not bad for a veteran journalist who studiously avoided writing a word about himself for decades.

“I never thought it would leave my computer, much less go worldwide,” he said.

Although Sanford has written hundreds of stories,profiles and reviews, he never considered diving into autobiographyuntil he interviewed Wade Rouse, a bestselling quirky-funny memoiristin the David Sedaris vein, for City Pulse in August 2011.During aconversation at Rouse’s home in Saugatuck, Rouse suggested that Sanfordwrite down some of his own experiences in journalism. At about the sametime, Sanford was enjoying Roseanne Cash’s autobiography, “Composed.”

During the grim, long winter of 2011-2012, he brushed aside his movie-addict stack of DVDs and started work.

Hired at 16 to work for the Grand Rapids Press, Sanfordhas interviewed a lot of famous and/or interesting people and seen alot of changes in journalism. To his surprise, the memoir was “crankingalong,” heading for book length at 50,000 words plus, until he reached2002 — the year he was diagnosed with testicular cancer.

It was like driving into a tunnel. “Up until then, thebook was lighthearted, quirky fun, and now it’s going into swellinggroins, radiation treatments and all that,” he said.

At first, Sanford decided to limit himself to a “cancerchapter,” but the subject was too big. He decided to describe the wholeexperience in gory detail and worry about what to do with themanuscript later.

“I was pretty sure nobody would want to read about my crotch,” he cracked.

There’s a lot of graphic crotch regarding in the book, tobe sure. When Sanford finds a lump in his scrotum, he deludes himselfthat it’s a spider bite or some other passing problem. He tries hotbaths, ice packs and old-fashioned denial.

His conclusion regarding “magical thinking:” “If it ever works, you certainly can’t prove it by me.”

Sanford not only has to deal with his cancer, but withother people who are dealing with his cancer. Ignorance is a constanttheme. When Sanford first tells friends and colleagues about hisdiagnosis, some of them ask if he would ever be able to have sex or goto the bathroom again, or if he would need a colostomy bag. Otherfriends asked him in all innocence whether the cancer was caused bydiet or sexual promiscuity.

“What did you do wrong, so I can avoid it?” was his acerbic paraphrase.

Many assumed it’s a death sentence: “Looking at them, Icould tell they were already mentally shopping for the perfect blacksuit or tasteful black dress to wear to the funeral.”

The book’s most horrifying moment comes when Sanford getsinto the tub for a nice post-surgery soak and suddenly glimpses hisscar.

“It looked like I’d been chewed up by a wolf and sewnhastily together,” he said. “Nobody told me it would take a few monthsfor the scar to heal. I thought I was permanently disfigured.”

But the body part Sanford most thoroughly scrutinizes in“The Sum of My Parts” is his head. Tapping into the fear and worry overhis cancer led him to into every other issue he had with his body overmany years, going back to junior high school.

“That was completely unexpected,” he said. “I was glad Ididn’t write about it when I went through it or immediately afterward.It wouldn’t have had the same perspective.”

With Sanford’s skeptical wit to leaven the load, the“cancer chapter” turned out to be lighthearted and quirky anyway.Right, James?

“People seem to agree with you,” he said, cautiously. “Idon’t know. It was funnier to experience it through writing than tolive through it.”

An excerpt from ’The Sum of My Parts’

Shortly before I was scheduled to be taken into theoperating room, I was dressed in a thin, white cloth gown and placedonto a gurney. A nurse handed me a blue Magic Marker. For a second, Iwondered if she wanted an autograph, or something.

"Could you draw an arrow pointing to the place wherewe’re going to be operating?" she asked. It was a good thing I was flaton my back because otherwise I think I would have rolled on the floor,laughing hysterically.

"Are you kidding?" I asked.

"No, this is our policy," she said. "Just draw an arrow to indicate which side we should be operating on."

She left the room. I was alone. Completely puzzled, Ihiked up my gown, uncapped the marker and drew a large, hollow bluearrow on my left thigh, pointing toward my left testicle, which wasvisibly larger than the right. Inside the arrow I wrote the words "thisside, please!" and colored in the space around it. My instructions wereas explicit as possible. A neon sign could hardly have done a betterjob.

A few minutes later, I was wheeled down a hall andinto an operating room. My first impression as I passed through theswinging doors was that it was far colder than I would have guessed.Even more surprising were the sounds that greeted me: some sort ofbuoyant calypso music, complete with shimmering steel drums. I almostexpected to smell jerk chicken cooking.

The surgeon, an anesthesiologist and two nurses werewaiting for me with carefree smiles on their faces, as if Happy Hourhad started and the banana daiquiris were half-off. Granted, I had notspent much time contemplating what my first visit to an operating roomwould look and sound like, but even if I had, I would never haveimagined this.

"Hello!" the surgeon said. "How are you feeling?"

I mumbled something about feeling fine and commented that the music had surprised me.

Everyone chuckled. "We like to keep things lightaround here," someone said, which was another thing I guess I neverexpected to hear in an operating room.

The anesthesiologist asked me if I had ever had anesthesia before. I had not.

"There’s nothing to worry about," I was told. "Just relax and breathe deeply and concentrate on counting backwards from 10."

"Sometimes, people like to picture themselves on abeautiful beach," one of the nurses said. Well, the musical selectioncertainly would help in painting that picture.

I closed my eyes and tried to envision a sun-drenched beach with swaying palm trees and welcoming waves.